


peach pits

by kuro49



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day she puts you into the ground is the day that it rains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	peach pits

**Author's Note:**

> i am feelin' blue about my future, have some version of a character study plus a side of not-so-careful mixing of second and third person pov.

The first thing she does, back in the Citadel (not home, not yet, not for a long, long while to go, not until the last traces of him are uprooted from the rocks and the sand and the everything else), is this: Getting down on her knees to lay her forehead to the ground.

The treasures still cradled against her belly in their worn leather home, more precious than anything that would grow out of her.

That, she is certain of.

 

You do not hate yourself.

You hate what was done. You hate what came before. What drove men to do as they did, to _use_ as they have used.

 

She is the Dag, named before she really understands the meaning of that word.

She is the Dag, and she sees, in that faraway look in her eyes.

She sees the crows that come before they do, the lights before they shine like a beacon in the dark. And, here is the suffocating humidity before the first rain that will touch these scorched earth once more.

 

The well is dry (where he looks and looks).

You split your lips smiling.

 

For once, it has nothing to do with the backhand when he brings you to the ground.

 

She cradles her belly in her hands. There are callouses to touch the soft swell, soil still imbedded in her fingerprints to trace the taut pull of skin over something that grows and grows.

It is inside of her.

This is not the first time this comes as a realization to her.

This is not about to be the last time this comes to startle her either.

 

You are not his.

You are not his. 

You are not for him.

 

Water touches her and she is reminded of that little pool that she dips her feet in. The water that touches her skin to wipe away the chalky touch of war paint that is not her own choosing. The water that cannot take away anything else she wishes it would.

She is not a wife. She is not The Wives.

She is the Dag and the water that splashes from the wide expense of grey above turn murky and muddy and cool at her feet.

 

She feels the kiss of it against her skin and it doesn’t burn like fire across her face.

 

It’s a lovely day.

You close your fingers around the seed of the fruit, driving it into the centre of your palm. You carry all the hope into the ground where the black is not guzzoline but soil that isn’t so sour.

The water that falls feels a lot like a kiss _good luck_.

The water that falls feels like a prayer answered by a god you do not have a name for.

It’s splendid.

 

Where she is looking (up, up) comes the sun.

 

XXX Kuro


End file.
